Simple Pleasures

Posted in response to the Daily Post weekly photo challenge. This week’s theme: ‘I’d rather be…’

Since my daughters have grown up we’ve only had one holiday together, and it was this one in Northumbria a couple of years ago.  It was a typical summer holiday in England – dull, cold and windy, so not wanting to waste such a brilliant beach we bought ourselves a kite.  Those four people (this includes my daughter’s partner) right there are the ones I love most in the world (as well as my mum of course – I have to say that, she reads this 🙂 ), and I remember watching them in the shadow of Bamburgh Castle, attempting to fly the kite in what felt like a gale, and generally being daft, and thinking just how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place with such beautiful people.  Yep, I’d take that over a Caribbean holiday any ol’ time…

…on second thoughts, sod the cold, ideally I would be with them in the Caribbean swimming in a warm sea or lying on a white sandy beach sipping at a rum punch…oh yeah…!

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The Shape of Love

There are no corners to hide in,
and no straight paths,
or sides to take

There is no long and short,
nor tip of the iceberg,
or points to make

No, love is a circle,
delicious, curvaceous,
a two tier cream cake

A full harvest moon,
a banging drum heart,
a promise you make

A ring on your finger,
a cuff on your wrist,
a hunger that wakes

A bowl full of spices,
a bouncing beachball
that gives, and, that takes

Oh love is a circle,
a merry go round
of tender heartaches

Yes, love is a circle
Two people conjoined
as endless soul mates

Unless, of course, it becomes a triangle…

Heavy Metal

The steel in your eyes,
sharp as a Japanese blade,
captures my thoughts
in its mirror.

Wielding your words
as a hefty sword
you slice through
my diaphanous centre.

I stand dripping and distraught
whilst your iron core
remains unmoved,
unrepentant.

And though I feel a flinty spark of anger
I cannot melt a missing heart.
For you are nothing
but a tin man.

 

Rage in old age

It always starts here
with a wrong word
that makes your skin prickle
and your hackles rise.
It was a thoughtless aside,
beneath the breath
a whisper of discontent
you shouldn’t have heard.

Yet with pursed lips
you broil and fester,
avoiding my eyes
by watching the distance
stretch out between us.
That which once was a hairs breadth
is now a snow filled rift.

We usually welcome silky silences.
The mute knowing of each other,
the glances and winks
touches and nods.
Our minds perfectly tuned
in harmonic melody.
Our own love language.

Now discordant and jagged,
I shrink from this quietness,
attempt a soothing sound,
offer my arms in submission,
allow the tears
and beg forbearance.
It was only a careless word.

I take up an old photograph
that sits on our sill.
A snapshot of a joyful time,
Champagne smiles
and clinking glasses,
so young in black and white
togetherness.

But still you stare ahead,
jaw set in defiance of compassion,
resisting the weakness of relenting.
But I glimpse the sadness
in your moist eyes.
Just the smallest notion
that the moment will soon pass.

So I make us some tea.

 

 

 

Stood up in the Sixties

I waited there at Kensington Tube
My skinny teenage legs
framed by lemon yellow hotpants
and cute matching socks

chin up and posing
the cheap and cheerful
Chelsea Girl look
No second glances for me though

Despite my twiggyness
Despite the nervous shaking of
my thin blond mane
or thick eyeliner applied in vogue

neither the regular tune of the trains
nor the checking of my chunky watch
stopped the time
and each minute past the hour

Became a taunt
Until the truth struck
and mascara running
I rued my platform soul

Me sixties

Yes, this is me in the sixties!

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